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AND OTHERS 





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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



FISHIN' POEMS 




Drawing by 
Albert Winkler 



Copyrighted l<)22 
By Phil Carspecken 



DEC-7?2 

gcU690498 






THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



DEDICATION 

Most of this verse was written while Luther A. Brewer 
was Governor of the Sixteenth (now the Eleventh) Dis- 
trict of Rotary International, and in considering the mat- 
ter of a dedication, his name naturally occurred to me. 
And Luther, being not only a good Rotarian, but a good 
fisherman as well, it seems eminently appropriate, and it 
is a sincere pleasure, for me to dedicate this little volume 

**" LUTHER A. BREWER 

ROTARIAN 

Aged 63 
The ardor of youth, the wisdom of age, 

A soul that delights to serve; 
Harmonious blending of boy and sage — 

Of vigor and calm reserve. 
Sportsman and scholar, and man of the mart, 

A traveler on land and sea, 
And Rotary's love in his kindly heart — 

That's Luther — at sixty-three ! 

There's that in his nature that speaks to me 

Of a soul and heart at ease. 
And the wisdom and quiet dignity 

Of Plato or Socrates. 
And one may travel for many a mile 

Before he will chance to see 
The glory that glows in the kindly smile 

Of Luther — at sixty-three ! 

Tho Rotary's Message has reached the heart 

Of thousands in youthful prime. 
Who actively ply on the busy mart 

And glow 'neath its touch sublime; 
Of all who are heeding its teachings now, 

Its halo, it seems to me. 
Most fittingly graces the silvered brow 

Of Luther — at sixty-three ! 



THE LURE OF THE SLOUGH 

I have fished with fair success in northern lake and moun- 
tain stream, but for the fisherman who derives from this great- 
est of all sports something more than the actual number of fish 
captured, the wild and almost inaccessible Mississippi river 
slough possesses a charm entirely unique. I have in mind a 
languid slough hidden in the timber, miles from any human 
habitation, where the wily bass lurks beside the sunken log, the 
vivacious crappie sports among the snags, and the iridescent 
sun-fish darts hither and yon — mostly yon. Lest an exodus of 
fishermen incontinently fall upon my favorite fishing spot, its 
exact location shall not be divulged, but it suffices to say that it 
can be found only with the aid of a compass and a guide, and 
a car that will thread a precarious and tortuous way along an 
untraveled road leading thru treacherous swamps and strewn 
with hidden stumps. Here I have spent many a night rolled 
up in a blanket by a camp-fire, lulled to rest by nature's sym- 
phony of frogs and owls and insects — a lonely, God-forsaken 
place when the shadows fall. When you awaken in the wee 
small hours of the morning, and the fire is flickering low, and a 
ghostly mist is hovering over the slough, and the silence is 
broken only by an occasional fish flopping out of the water, 
sending a little shiver down your spine, and the owls tune up, 
and the bull-frogs are booming — your thoughts are far from 
frivolous, to say the least. Did you ever lie awake at night 
listening to the booming of the bull-frogs (not the pond variety, 
but the big fellows with the deep bass voice) that haunt the 
unfrequented sloughs? 



FISHIN' POEMS AND 
OTHERS 



WHEN THE BULL-FROGS ARE A-BOOMING 
UP THE SLOUGH 

When the camp-fire flickers lower and the branches over- 
head 

Keep a-rustling in the night-wind like the spirits of the 
dead, 

And the moon that you've been watching disappears be- 
hind a cloud, 

And a mist hangs o'er the water like a ghostly kind of 
shroud ; 

Then you think of wife and kiddies who are snug at home 
in bed, 

And regret the harsh things spoken, and the words of love 
unsaid, 

And a loneliness creeps o'er you like a subtle agony, 

And you wish your pal would waken, for your soul craves 
company — 

When the bull-frogs are a-booming up the slough. 

Then the little business worries and the troubles of the 

day 
Seem to lose all their importance and to gently fade away, 



10 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And you think of the Hereafter and the maa you might 

have been, 
Had you wooed old Mother Nature more, and less the 

city's din. 
For this silent self-communion as you lie there on the sod, 
When the shades of night have fallen, brings you closer 

to your God, 
And you realize the emptiness of all youVe striven for. 
And your soul expands and vainly strives to glimpse the 

other shore — 

When the bull-frogs are a-booming up the slough. 

When my fishing days are over, and my soul is vi^afted 

hence 
To the better land, I hope I'll have some fitter recompense 
Than the harps and robes and streets of pearl that some 

folks call to mind 
When they try to picture Heaven — such to me would be 

unkind. 
But I know there is a Heaven that is radiant and fair, 
And I know the kind Creator answers all our longings 

there, 
And the Paradise I dream of, where I hope to rest my 

soul. 
Will include among its pleasures a Celestial fishing hole — 
WTiere the bull-frogs are a-booming up the slough. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND O THERS 1 1 

QUIET WATERS 

I have fished the Mississippi, where the mighty packets ply, 
In whose sullen depths the sturgeon and the hoosier cat- 
fish lie, 
And altho my soul expanded with the wonder of that 

scene. 
All too soon its gorgeous splendor caused my senses to 

careen ; 
For the rushing, swirling water and the broad expanse 

of sky, 
And the sense of mighty motion, all oppressed my weary 

eye, 
And with troubled and bewildered soul I steered my frail 

canoe, 
To the peaceful hush and languor of the more secluded 

slough. 

And 'twas there in quiet waters, where the gentler breezes 

blew. 
That my tortured spirit soon regained its poise, and lived 

anew ; 
And in pensive meditation came the message from afar, 
That 'twere best to do my fishing where the quiet waters 

are. 
Oh, I know the fish are smaller there, but sweeter far 

to me 
Than the ones the more adventurous catch in river, lake 

or sea, 
And I'd rather fish for sunfish in the quiet nooks of life, 
Than for "big fish" in swift waters where the soul is 

worn with strife. 



12 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Not for me the moving epic nor the clamor of the throng, 
For my soul responds more keenly to the simple, homely 

song; 
And I shun Life's rushing currents, knowing well the 

truth to be 
That my nature's not attuned to them, nor were they 

meant for me. 
And contentedly I cast my lot 'mongst those with soul 

subdued. 
Who joy not in the surge of life, but seek its solitude. 
On the broad, tumultuous currents let the bolder spirits 

prey — 
In secluded, quiet waters will I dream my life away. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND O THERS 1 3 

LAZY DAYS 

Lazy days, hazy days — days that lulled my soul 
Into sweet contentment at our favorite fishin' hole. 
Stretched out on a fallen log projecting from the shore, 
Puffing on a briar that never seemed so sw^eet before; 
Gazing at the fleecy clouds that sweep the summer sky, 
Drinking in the dreamy charm that spreads before the 
eye. 
Lazy days, hazy days — days that seemed to be 
Framed by God on purpose for my fishin' pal and me ! 

Lazy days, hazy days — days that gently brought 

Solace to my soul that stern Philosophy could not. 
All my worldly troubles kind of vague and far away. 
Life's afflictions softened by the languor of the day. 
Buoyantly my spirit, finding freedom there it craves, 
Rode the wings of Fancy as my bobber rode the waves. 

Lazy days, hazy days — days beyond compare ; 

Doubly dear to me because my fishin' pal was there ! 

Lazy days, hazy days — days that brought to me 

Many fervid moments of religious ecstacy. 

Underneath the open sky I somehow felt the need 
Of higher form of worship without ritual or creed. 
Rev'rently my spirit reared its altar 'neath the trees — 
Joyfully I praised the God who fashioned days like 
these. 

Lazy days, hazy days — days that taught me, too. 

Other friends may waver, but a fishin' pal is true! 

Lazy days, hazy days — days of golden hue — 

Dear old, kind old fishin' pal, Fm thinking now of you! 



14 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

I see your ruddy, beaming face across the Great Divide, 
I seem to hear your rubber boots a-crunchin' at my side. 
I feel your ardent hand-clasp, as we parted years ago, 
And planned another fishin' trip — alas, we did not 
know! 

Lazy days, hazy days — days forever fled ; 

My fishin' tackle's laid away — my fishin' pal is dead ! 



FISHIN' POEMS AND O THERS 1 5 
NIGHT FISHING 

("When You Run Your Hoosier Trot-line in the Moonlight") 

I have fished in early morning when the mists begin to 
rise 

From the silent, brooding waters and to mingle with the 
skies ; 

I have fished throughout the glory of a languorous sum- 
mer's day, 

Till the evening shadows bade me move reluctantly away. 

I have felt the tense excitement and the ecstacy of soul 

That can only reach the heart-strings thru a bamboo 
fishing-pole ; 

But of all these thrilling moments there is none that quite 
attains 

To the riotous emotions that go surging through the 
veins — 
When you run your "hoosier" trot-line in the moon- 
light! 

When you push out in your "John-boat" from the shadows 

of the shore. 
And the night-wind carries far the measured creaking 

of your oar, 
And the only living thing you hear, beside your own 

heart-beat, 
Is the squirming of the "craw-dads" in the bait-pail at 

your feet; 
Then you think of all the drown'd men, and you shudder 

with the thought 
That their spirits haunt the river where they perished, 

like as not, 



1 6 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And in every floating log you see a ghastly upturned face, 
And your distant flick'ring camp-fire seems a mighty 
cheery place — 
When you run your "hoosier" trot-line in the moon- 
light! 

But these sombre thoughts are soon dispelled — a tugging 

at the line 
Sends a thrill to every nerve-cell like the fumes of heady 

wine, 
And you stiffen with excitement as you grab your land- 
ing-net, 
And approach with bated breath to where the waters 

foam and fret. 
Just an instant's frenzied struggle, as your heart leaps 

to your throat — 
And a lithe and gamey channel-cat lies flopping in your 

boat! 
Oh, I know the markets sell them for a stipulated sum, 
But how priceless the elation and the pride that only 

come — 
When you catch them on your trot-line in the moon- 
light! 

Now your trot-line seeks the bottom, and the sullen, 
leaden weight 

Of the monster hoosier-catfish makes your old heart pal- 
pitate. 

Soon he rises to the surface, and you glimpse his tawny 
hide 

And satanic-looking visage, as he churns the flowing tide ; 



FISH IN' POEMS AND O THERS 1 7 

Then a mighty lunge and struggle — and your prize is 

rushing south, 
Like some crazed subaqueous demon, with your hook still 

in his mouth. 
And there's peace upon the water, but there's turmoil 

in your heart. 
And it seems as though 'twas ever thus — the big ones 
all depart 
When you run your "hoosier" trot-line in the moon- 
light! 

***** 

When the darkness shrouds the river, there's a mute so- 
lemnity 

In the ceaseless flow of water, that suggests Eternity ; 

And the age-old yearnings stir within — the spirit seems 
to soar 

Far above the murky shadows that are hov'ring near the 
shore. — 

Underneath, the silent waters; overhead, the starlit sky; 

'Twixt the two, one awe-struck mortal — and the God 
of all on high. 

Oh, I never feel my Maker quite so near or quite so kind, 

As when on the sombre river — all my worldly cares 
behind — 
And I run my "hoosier" trot-line in the moonlight! 

(Recollections of one wonderful night in July, on the Iowa River) 



1 8 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

STAR DUST 

My little girl approached one day and told me of her woes, 
And pointed out some freckles that were scattered o'er 

her nose, 
And asked me how they came there, and she bitterly 

complained 
That freckles were so "common," and a thing that she 

disdained. 
I took her gently on my lap, and sought within my brain 
To conjure up some soothing thought to ease the trifling 

pain ; 
Then came the inspiration that brought laughter in her 

eye — 
"Those freckles, dear, are star dust that has fallen from 

the sky!" 

I find a wealth of pleasure in the flowers of my yard. 
But most of all I love to see a smooth and verdant sward, 
And in the spring of every year my heart to ire inclines 
To wake and find my well-kept lawn ablaze with dande- 
lions. 
And with a spleen akin to hate, I labor by the hour 
To banish from my pampered lawn this "common" little 

flower — 
But once when I was thus engaged, my little girl came 

nigh 
And whispered, " 'tis but star dust that has fallen from 
the sky!" 

Yes, sunshine brings the dandelions, and breeds the 
freckles, too, 



FISH IN' POEMS AND O THERS 1 9 

And just because they come unbid, they cause us much 

ado; 
But many lowly things of life, so "common" that they 

swarm, 
If viewed aright will greet the sight with some celestial 

charm. 
And in each plodding soul that never felt religious fire, 
And in each sluggish intellect that grovels in the mire. 
Yes, even in the grinning fool that dumbly slouches by, 
We find a dash of star dust that has fallen from the sky I 



20 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

THE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL IN THE OLD- 
FASHIONED FROCK 

Oh, I'm sick of the "jazz" and the whirl of today, 

And I sometimes half wish it would vanish away; 

And my thoughts hearken back to old friends and old 

books. 
And to old-fashioned gardens with cool shaded nooks. 
For the currents of life swirl and eddy so fast, 
That my heart turns for solace to things of the past, 
And it freshens my soul just in fancy to walk 
With an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned frock. 

With an old-fashioned maiden, whose visage serene 

I have glimpsed on the page of an old magazine, 

Or who smiles from an album that's covered with dust, 

With a face all aglow with affection and trust. 

In whose love one would find the quintessence of bliss — 

Who bestowed all her heart and her soul with her kiss ; 

Not the kind who dissemble, with light, flippant talk — 

Just an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned frock. 

When I gaze at the "flapper" so scantly arrayed, 
As she swings in the Saturday evening parade, 
With her skirts to her knees, and her flesh-colored hose, 
And a bloom on the cheek where a blush never grows ; 
Away down in my heart I can feel a dull ache. 
As I wonder what kind of a Mother she'll make, 
And I frankly thank God 'twas my fortune to rock 
In the arms of a girl with an old-fashioned frock. 

More alluring to me are the charms half-concealed, 
Than the ones that are freely and boldly revealed; 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 21 

And though "flappers" be ever so pure, be it said 
That something of Maidenhood's mystery has fled. 
There's a bloom that has faded, a glow that has waned — 
An intangible charm that can ne'er be regained. 
For it languished and withered and died with the stock 
Of the old-fashioned girl in the old-fashioned frock. 

Oh, I'm sick of the "jazz" and the whirl of today, 
And my spirit, all dazed and distraught, gropes its way 
To my old-fashioned garden, where echoes the tread 
Of the soft-falling footsteps of lovers long dead ; 
Where the old-fashioned roses with dew-drops are wet, 
Where there lingers the perfume of sweet mignonette, 
Where yet blooms the wistaria and tall hollyhock — 
And an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned frock! 



22 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

PARTING 

On crowded street, in busy mart, 
When from our dearest friends we part, 
An optimism fills the heart 

Than which there is no greater; 
There is no tinge of sorrow then — 
We know full well we'll meet again. 
It may be soon — we know not when — 

"Well, so-long — see you later!" 

How casually the words are said ! 
And still before the day is sped 
The one of us may yet be dead, 

For Death's a stern Dictator; 
But cheerfully we meet and part. 
On crowded street, in busy mart, 
And voice the hope that's in our heart — 

"Well, so-long — see you later!" 

It cannot be that Death's the end. 
For somewhere just around the bend 
I'll meet with you again, my friend, 

And join our kind Creator; 
So when my Summons comes some day, 
Don't grieve that I am called away. 
Just clasp me by the hand and say — 

"Well, so-long — see you later!" 

To Geo. H. Washburn, Optimist, and Possessor of the Secret of 
Eternal Youth — 

" — a friend, 
"Whom I shall join around the bend." 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 23 

TRAILS 

O, Brother of Mine, in my youthful day 
I traveled a bit on the Great White Way, 
Where I sipped of pleasures that flare and flit. 
Till my soul grew sick with the glare of it. 
'Twas a luring trail I but briefly paced, 
And the mem'ry now has an acrid taste — 
Far sweeter the days when I trudged with you 
The road thru the timber to Bull-frog Slough. 

Remote from the marked and the beaten trail. 
With our poles and tackle and minnow-pail, 
We wended our way, with our chins held high. 
And our heads both bared to the summer sky. 
And the sunlight danced, and the woodland rang 
With the echoed lilt of the songs we sang. 
As we traveled together — just we two — 
The road thru the timber to Bull-frog Slough. 

'Twas a fairy road, and it seemed to wind 
Thru enchanted w^oods, where we left behind 
All the worldly shell we had reared till then 
To conceal our souls from the eyes of men. 
And we both stood forth in a new array, 
As the taint of the world all dropped away. 
And our souls touched hands as I jogged with you 
The road thru the timber to Bull-frog Slough. 

'Twas a trail as dim as the mind conceives, 

And was cushioned deep with the Autumn leaves. 

And it lent to our footsteps strength renewed. 



24 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

As it dipped and turned thru the solitude. 

I have hit the trails that are far and wide, 

And have sought lost youth where the crowds abide, 

But I found it not till I trod with you 

The road thru the timber to Bull-frog Slough. 

As the years roll on and our heads turn gray, 
And we've traveled our span on Life's highway, 
Fond mem'ry will cast an appraising eye 
On the paths we trod in the years gone by. 
So, Brother of Mine, when the twilight falls 
On the trails of the past that your mind recalls, 
Think then of the days that I walked with you 
The road thru the timber to Bull-frog Slough. 

Dedicated to my brother, Paul D. Carspecken — a fishing pal. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 25 
UP AT "BULL-FROG SLOUGH" 

(Bedtime — the night before) 

Fishin' tackle's ready with my pole and minnow seine — 
(Had a gorgeous sunset, so it isn't going to rain.) 
Outing-shirt and khaki pants are hanging on the bed — 
Pair of muddy rubber-boots are standing at my head. 
Sandwiches are nestling with a home-made apple pie — 
Matches and tobacco and my pipe are all close by. 
Got my Big Ben set so it will ring at half-past two — 
They say the bass are biting up at "Bull-frog Slough !" 

Kind of hard to get to sleep, my mind keeps working so — 
When this fishin' fever strikes, I want to up and go ! 
Toss about and close my eyes and try to doze away — 
All I see is sleepy sloughs where willows nod and sway. 
Thinking of a sunken log 'way up around the bend — 
No one knows about it — wouldn't tell my dearest friend ; 
Surely bass are lurking there — and maybe crappie, too — 
A-waiting for my coming up at "Bull-frog Slough!" 

(Lapse of twenty-four hours) 

Needn't call the neighbors in to show 'em all my "string" — 
Any one with sense could see I didn't catch a thing; 
Nothing in the world to show but 'skeeter bites and scars — 
All I caught was turtles and those blamed old billy-gars! 
Take this mess of fishin' junk and chuck it in the shed — 
Give me just a snack to eat and let me pile in bed; 
Never mention fishin' trips to me again — I'm through ! 
Who said the bass were biting up at "Bull-frog Slough?" 

Trolled my choicest minnows up and down that pesky 
hole — 



26 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Tried out every trick I knew to tempt a fish's soul ; 
Fished the snags and sunken logs, where fish would 

likely hide — 
Then I traveled 'leven miles and fished the other side ! 
Fished with minnows and with worms, with liver and 

with cheese — 
Fished with frogs and flies and bugs — with everything 

but fleas! 
Got a dark suspicion, and I'll tell it now to you — 
There's someone been a-seininff up at "Bull-frog Slough 1" 

But mem'ry paints that day of sport in tints of rarest 

hue. — 
I watched the glowing sun come up, and sniffed the 

morning dew; 
My languid blood coursed faster in the freedom of the 

wild — 
I ranged the timbered lowlands with the ardor of a child. 
It clarified my vision, and my soul gained strength that 

day — 
God's closer in the open — or at least it seems that way; 
I carried home a mind refreshed — a keener conscience, 

too — 
There's more than merely "fishin' " up at "Bull-frog 

Slough!" 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 27 

"BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!" 

I have a friend — he went with me 
Upon a h'ttle fishing spree; 
We salh'ed forth at half-past three 

With visions of a "string;" 
His sole intent was just to nab 
Some fish, and when they wouldn't grab 
His hook, he started in to "crab" — 

He never caught a thing! 

He growled about the sleep he lost, 
He figured what his time had cost, 
And tho I still fished on, he tossed 

His bait-can in the slough; 
He scofifed because I lingered there, 
He sulked and grumbled like a bear, 
And spread ill-feeling everywhere. 

As all poor sportsmen do. 

I have another friend — and he 
Went also forth to fish with me; 
We left the house at half-past three 

Intent upon a "string;" 
He fished about from place to place, 
A hopeful look upon his face, 
And cast his line with gentle grace — 

And never caught a thing! 

His youthful ardor never waned. 
He never chided or complained 
At lack of bites — he seemed sustained 
All day with hope sublime; 



28 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And when the luckless day was sped, 
He didn't vent his peeve — instead 
He gathered up his things and said — 
"Well, better luck next time!" 

Five words he spoke, and yet our ends 
Are oft controlled by words of friends — 
If chosen well, they bring amends 

And lull Life's discontent; 
They seemed to rise and sweetly sing. 
They eased the hurt and dulled the sting; 
We headed home with buoyant swing 

And deemed the day well spent. 

We cannot hope to always win, 
We all at times must feel chagrin. 
To whimper is the greater sin — 

To fail is not a crime; 
And tho I blunder every day, 
And failure seems to bar the way, 
I'll try again — if friends will say 

"Well, better luck next time!" 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 29 
ODE TO A PIPE 

(A "Three-B" 1915 Vintage) 

Old friendly briar, whose carbon-crusted bowl 

Contains sweet balm to soothe the troubled soul, 

Of thee I sing — a homely topic, true, 

And one the classic highbrows all eschew. 

Homer may sing of battles, Byron of love, 

Dante of hell, Milton of realms above; 

To easier grasped and lowlier themes I lean — 

My muse hath soaked itself in Nicotine. 

What tho my wife detest thy pungent smell, 

And rail at thee, and raise domestic hell, 

Still do I swear by thee, and tune my lyre 

To sing the modest virtues of the briar. 

Thou art not fair to look upon, and yet 

Unlike the pert and sporty cigarette 

And more pretentious brother, the cigar, 

Which yield brief pleasure, then are cast afar — 

I take thee up a dozen times a day, 

And find thee sweeter than when laid away. 

Women and Wealth and Fame are sweet indeed, 

And framed to answer every mortal need, 

And yet not all — to that I here dissent. 

For thou alone can'st bring me sweet content. 

Root of all pleasure, thou hast ever been 

To me a boon companion, purged of sin, 

For tho thou bringest cheer and wholesome laughter, 

Thou hast no come-back of the "morning after." 

Have I not gone on many a fishing trip 

With thee, and thee alone, upon my hip? 



30 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And camping in the woodland solitude, 

Thou hast induced the meditative mood, 

And when the shades of night have fall'n, the glow 

From out thy blackened bowl hath made me grow 

More chummy with my pal, more frank and free 

To bare for him the very soul of me; 

For there is that about thee thaws the ice 

That cramps the hearts of men as in a vice. 

When other friends grow cold, we know not why. 
And all the world seems twisted and awry. 
And funds grow low, and business shot to hell — 
With thee between my teeth, why, all is well! 
Old friendly briar, thy carbon-crusted bowl 
Hath bred in me a philosophic soul, 
And tho all else go wrong, I'll not repine, 
With thee to calm the troubled heart of mine. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 31 
FAME 

{Neivs Item: "Recommendation that a 7,000 foot peak in the 
La Toosh Range, Rainier National Park, be named Lane Peak 
in honor of Franklin K. Lane, former Secretary of the Interior, 
has been forwarded to the National Geographic Board by the 
Ranier Park Advisory Board. The peak was described as one 
of the most beautiful in the park.") 

When from his station of proud acclaim, 

Death coldly beckons the man of fame, 

Fitting it is that the world should seek 

To 'blazon his name on the towering peak; 

High in the clouds, midst the thunder's crash. 

Revealed to our gaze by the lightning's flash. 

In lofty circles he moved when here, — ■ 

His fame should be witnessed from far and near. 

Name all your peaks for the famous few — 

No one begrudges this thing ye do. 

But what of the army of faithful souls 

Whose record is writ in the humbler scrolls — 

The weary millions, who grimly face 

The deadening grind of the commonplace? 

Manfully striving from day to day 

To prove their worth in their humble way; 

Their virtues unknown save to God on high — 

Obscurely they live and obscurely die. 

Worthy of praise, tho' of common clay — 

Are there no mountains for such as they? 

* * * 

I wot of a place that is seldom trod 

By the feet of man ; where the virgin sod 



32 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Declines to the bank of a placid stream 

Where the darting fishes shimmer and gleam. 

Silent and sheltered, obscurely set 

In the heart of the wilds, unknown as yet 

To aught but a favored few imbued 

With love for this sylvan solitude. 

To others I yield all the peaks that be — 

This modest spot ye may name for me. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 33 



ANOTHER DAY BEGINS 

The morning sunlight filters thru 

The curtains, and it crawls apace 
Until its searching rays alight 

Upon a rosy, dimpled face. 
The eyelids quiver, and she stirs 

As foliage by the breezes kissed, 
And in each drowsy eye she rubs 

A petulant and chubby fist. 
Then opens wide her eyes of blue, 

And greets with rapt delight the day. 
And flings aside the coverlet 

To seek the toys she laid away 
When sleep o'er took her last, and soon 

Throughout the house her Carolins 
Of joy are heard — and thus for her 

Another day begins! 

That selfsame sunlight finds its way 

To where I lie. I wake to greet 
The taunt of promise unfulfilled — 

The sting of yesterday's defeat ; 
The memory of wasted days — 

Of early efforts all misspent; 
Of ardent hopes that bowed before 

The chill of disillusionment. 
My soul supinely stoops again 

To shoulder up the load it bore, 
And grapples with the countless cares 

And problems of the day before. 



34 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

With weary sigh I slowly rise, 

And from my mirror now there grins 

A visage gaunt — and thus for me 
Another day begins ! 

Ah, would that I could lay me down 

And banish all these thoughts that fret; 
Nor wake to grimly cope anew 

With present woe or vain regret! 
And as I watch this child of mine 

Thus greet the dawn with snatch of song. 
It grieves my heart to know that she 

Must taste Life's gall ere very long; 
That days must dawn when that dear heart 

Will lift no song — but feel despair ; 
That grief must needs invade her soul 

And leave its sombre shadows there. 
Oh, little girl, when Life's last sleep 

Blots out this world of woes and sins, 
And we shall wake — then for us all 

A better day begins! 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 35 

WHEN THE DUSK BEGINS TO FALL 

There are many solemn moments in the fitful lives of men, 
When the soul is bathed in shadows undefined by tongue 

or pen, 
And your efforts all seem squandered and your talents 

misapplied, 
And the things that you have builded only driftwood 

on the tide 
That is ever sweeping onward to a vast and wreck-strewn 

sea 
Where the fruit of all our toil becomes a mere nonentity. 
But of all these sombre periods, there is one exceeds them 

all — 
When you're lying on a sick-bed and the dusk begins to 

fall. 

As with fevered brow and aching eyes you watch the 

dying day, 
And you hear upon the street the care-free children at 

their play. 
And the autos rushing swiftly by with pleasure-seeking 

folk. 
Who honk their horn with ribald scorn, and laugh and 

sing and joke; 
Then it seems that all the pulsing world is rushing on 

pell-mell. 
And that you alone have fallen by the waj^side for a spell, 
Where you languish, weak and weary, and you tire of life 

and all. 
As you lie upon your sick-bed and the dusk begins to fall. 



36 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

It is then the evil deeds you've done like phantoms taunt 
the soul, 

And the things for which you've striven seem a vain and 
w^orthless goal; 

And you wonder how you'll average up on that last Judg- 
ment Day 

When the record you have made while here is put upon 
display ; 

And the only bit of comfort you can get is that perhaps 

There'll be thrown into the reckoning your human hand- 
icaps, 

And I hope I will not falter when with face turned to- 
ward the wall 

I shall lie on my last sick-bed and the dusk begins to fall. 

June 21, 1821. Malaria. 

P. S. "And the next day the sun was shining, 'neverything!" 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 37 

THREE PIPES 

The pipe I smoke about the house is one of ample size, 
And in its deep, capacious bowl a placid comfort lies; 
A ponderous, substantial pipe, quite staid and dignified, 
It could not glow in gay and lightsome circles if it tried. 
It seems to draw more freely when my daily work is done, 
As sitting in my easy chair I watch the setting sun ; 
It never stirs with wild desires to range or prowl or roam, 
Birt lifts its mild aroma in the precincts of the home. 

My office pipe's a different breed — more businesslike 

and trim. 
With bowl all neatly polished and a stem that's long and 

slim ; 
A natty, dapper, sporty pipe — correct, and worldly-wise, 
That wears a pert and jaunty air as on my desk it lies. 
It holds but brief enjoyment in the turmoil of the day, 
But serves its soothing purpose in a brisk and pleasing way ; 
It looks with calm disdain upon my home-pipe all sedate, 
And flaunts the breeze and finish of a college graduate. 

I have another pipe-friend that has tasted harder knocks — 
It sulks much like an outcast in my fishin'-tackle box; 
All battered, scarred and carbon-caked, it somehow seems 

to wear 
A vagabondish swagger and a rough-and-ready air. 
But close communion teaches that within its blackened 

bowl 
There dwells a genial nature and a sympathetic soul — 
A soul that finds expression in a ruddy, cheery glow 
When darkness shrouds the water and the camp-fire 

flickers low. 



38 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

When sombre-mooded hoot-owls call and answer o'er the 

slough, 
And on the wings of darkness comes to awe the heart of 

you 
The gruff, deep-throated booming of a bull-frog 'round 

the bend — 
'Tis then that rough old fishin' pipe's a mighty cheery 

friend ! 
It may be sadly battered, with a bowl all nicked and 

chipped, 
And mouth-piece badly dented where my frenzied teeth 

have gripped; 
It may have lost a lustre that no art can now recall — 
And yet that tough old fishin' pipe's the sweetest of them 

all! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 39 
ROSES 

To my mind there is nothing more pathetic than withered 
roses, fondly associated with some momentous event in one's 
life, and treasured up during the departed years. When one 
unexpectedly comes upon them, they call up a flood of memories 
too sacred for expression. 

Roses, all faded and withered, 

Their beauty and fragrance fled; 
Crumbling here in their resting place 

Like the dust of forgotten dead. 

Roses, once radiant with beauty 
Caught from the sunshine and air; 

Fresh and pure as the girl I loved, 
And breathing a perfume rare. 

Roses, worn by the girl I won, 

On the day she became my bride; 
Our love survives the departed years — 

But the roses withered and died. 

Roses, all faded and crumbling, 

Dead emblems of youthful bliss ; 
Thank God for the thought that comforts — 

Our love shall not perish like this! 



40 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
THE ABSTRACT OF TITLE 

A friend chided me one day upon being engaged in so prosaic 
a calling as abstracting titles, and characterized my profession 
as "dull, stale and unprofitable." I agreed with him as to its 
being unprofitable, but I contended it was neither dull nor stale, 
and to prove it I wrote the following verses. 

Making abstracts is a dry, prosaic calling, well we know, 
Delving daily into records made a century ago, 
Tracing wearily the title from the Patent down to date, 
Thru the maze of suits and transfers that obscure and 

complicate ; 
Yet for me there's fascination in thus working in the past. 
And on all the seeming drudg'ry there's a kind of glamour 

cast, 
For there's poetry and romance running thru the tangled 

chain. 
And there's written in the record much of human joy 

and pain. 

For, like Gibbon and Macaulay, we're Historians, in our 

way. 
And we bring to light transactions of a gone, forgotten 

day. 
True, we only sketch the outline, but behind it all there 

lies 
Quite a bit of human interest that our fancy well supplies ; 
And I love to let that fancy freely roam and weave a tale 
About every deed and mortgage, into each judicial sale; 
For the records deal with pioneers and homestead farms 

and homes, 
And we garner many heart-throbs from those dry and 

musty tomes. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 41 

For in every grim foreclosure lurks a heart-ache, and we 
sense 

In the Bankruptcy Assignment human misery intense; 

There is grief in every tax sale, and w^e seem to hear the 
wail 

Of the widow and the children robbed of home by 
Sheriff's Sale. 

Delving thru the Court proceedings we find interwoven 
there. 

Couched in formal, legal lingo, much of sorrow and de- 
spair. 

And we live again thru all the trials of folks of long ago — 

Running thru the chain of title there's a deal of human 
woe. 

The estate files, torn and tattered — there's a certain some- 
thing there 

That is sacred, and we handle them with reverence and 
care. 

And they help us to determine how the owner's life was 
spent. 

For he often bares his soul in his Last Will and Testa- 
ment. 

And in running thru Partition Suits there plainly will 
be seen. 

In the squabbles of the children, much that's grasping, 
low and mean. 

For in fighting for a dead man's wealth the baser feel- 
ings breed — 

Running thru the chain of title there's a deal of human 
greed. 



42 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And in poring o'er the records that pertain to real estate, 

Setting forth the imperfections that impair and compli- 
cate, 

Comes the thought of my soul's record, and the mess 
I've made of it, 

And I long to change some things that the Recording 
Angel's writ; 

And I wonder, when the tangled chain is done, and I 
have died. 

And the Abstract of my Life is duly closed and certified. 

And the Great Exam'ner scans each fatal flaw and grave 
defect, 

Will He waive those imperfections in my record — or 
reject? 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 43 

PIPE PHILOSOPHY 

'Tis a friendly old world that we live in, 

With generous heart-beats for all; 
But our kindliest impulses, wisely, 

Are tempered with fairness withal. 
We dislike to be touched for a "tenner" — 

(A "touch" seems so much like a snatch;) 
But how quickly we dig in our pockets 

When someone says: "Gimme a match!" 

If I put forth an honest endeavor, 

Producing as Nature intends. 
It must follow the world will discern it, 

And grant me the favors of friends. 
Tho I travel to lands that are distant. 

And I stand at a stranger's latch, 
If I furnish my pipe and tobacco, 

I always can borrow a match! 

When fond Charity coddles the spineless, 

The worth of the virtue has fled; 
'Tis the thought that we've worked for our portion 

That will sweeten our daily bread. 
Many things we may have for the asking — 

For others we dig and we scratch ; 
We must work for our pipe and tobacco — 

Tho Courtesy furnish the match! 



44 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
PIPE MOODS 

I have just made the discovery, after a session of frenzied 
figuring, that approximately three-fourths of my waking hours 
are spent in puffing at a battered, carbon-crusted briar-pipe; 
one-eighth is spent in lighting my pipe; and one-eighth is spent 
in vyishing my pipe were lit. And my corresponding moods are 
about as follows: 

I feel within a vague unrest, 
.fc. A nameless yearning fills my breast 
And smoulders there. I seem obsessed 

With fear and doubt. 
A taunting Past assails my mind, 
The Present bears a front unkind, 
The Future looms a hopeless grind — 
My pipe is out! 

***** 

I feel within a sweet content — 
A kind of mellowed rapture, blent 
With languor, in whose element 

My fancies flit. 
The Past now glows in kindly light. 
My present woes seem vague and trite. 
The Future spreads in vistas bright — 

My pipe is lit! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 45 
TO OUR WIVES 

"He Profits Most Whose Wife Serves Best!" 
We may boast of the things we have builded, 

Thru struggle and strife and turmoil, 
And exult o'er successes all gilded 

With gold from the mint of our toil; 
Our achievements may warrant our "crowing," 

But if we look back thru our lives. 
We will find there is much that is owing 

Those dear silent partners — our wives. 

Tho their power is unostentatious 

(A guidance we scarcely can feel). 
Yet their influence, winning and gracious, 

Is felt in each big business deal; 
For behind each kind impulse correcting, 

And each worthy thought that survives, 
You will find them, still gently directing — 

Those dear silent partners — our wives. 

They condole when our schemes all miscarry, 

They praise each success of the day. 
They revive the tired footsteps that tarry. 

They call back the footsteps that stray ; 
They uplift us again when we're beaten. 

They soothe us in time of turmoil. 
They refine our crude way^, and they sweeten 

A life that grows grimy with toil. 

So here is our Toast — Let us pledge her, 

Who serves in the Business of Life, 
Tho' her name is not writ in the Ledger, — 

That dear silent Partner — The Wife. 



46 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

THAT FISHING PAL OF MINE 

As I glance back o'er the fitful years I've squandered here 
on earth, 

And endeavor from the dismal mess to glean some things 
of worth, 

There is nothing yields me quite the joy, or nearer makes 
amends 

For the record of my failures, than the memories of my 
friends. 

But I single out one friendship that is rarest of them all, 

And I thrill with exaltation as its pleasures I recall. 

For there's heart-glow and there's heart-balm that I can- 
not quite define 

In the friendship that I cherish for that fishing pal of mine. 

Full many a time we've sallied forth and left our cares 
behind, 

In the early hours of morning, driving roads that dip 
and wind. 

And our years all seemed to fall away — our souls anew 
were born 

As we viewed the glorious sunrise o'er the fields of rip- 
ened corn. 

For the rarest charms of Nature are revealed on every 
hand 

When the morning mists are lifting from the fertile bot- 
tom-land ; 

And the tang of roadside weeds and fields of clover was 
and wine. 

Which I sipped in mute communion with that fishing 
pal of mine. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 47 

Oh, the wondrous days, the joyous days, 'neath skies of 

azure blue, 
That we whiled away together up the wild and silent 

slough ! 
And we listened to the distant sullen booming of the frogs 
As we trolled for lurking bass beneath the sunken, moss- 
grown logs; 
And we watched the gaunt and stately crane go skimming 

up the stream, 
And beneath the limpid waters saw the darting fishes 

gleam ; 
Oh, this life holds nothing dearer than the memories 

that intwine 
And cluster 'round those moments with that fishing pal 

of mine! 

And a spell was cast upon us with the fall of ev'ning 

gloam, 
For we grew more confidential as we slowly wended 

home, 
And we talked of many things besides the catches of the 

day, 
Or the estimated bigness of the Ones that Got Away; 
For we learned each other's sorrow and we glimpsed each 

other's soul. 
And we bared our inmost feelings as we left that fishing 

hole. 
And our hearts warmed toward each other — Oh, I've 

seen affection shine 
In the kindly, wind-tanned face of that old fishing pal 

of mine! 



48 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And recalling all those wondrous days, it seems that it 
must be 

That a comradeship thus formed will last thru all Eter- 
nity; 

And perforce the day will come when you or I, old pal, 
must go 

On a journey thru the Valley where the chilling waters 
flow; 

And if first the summons comes to me, I'm very sure my 
soul 

Will straightway seek the beauties of our favorite fish- 
ing hole. 

And traveling out the Bottom Road, with bait and pole 
and line. 

My soul will still be at your side — old fishing pal of 
mine! 

Oh, you men of fame and men of wealth and men of big 

affairs. 
You may think your gold will buy you some surcease from 

worldly cares. 
But you'll find life's vain distractions only serve to pall 

and cloy. 
And the pleasures of the crowd will yield but superficial 

joy; 
For despite the social whirl the soul is lonely and apart, 
And it languishes and suffers from a hunger of the heart; 
And you'll never sense the wonder of a joy that's all 

divine 
Till you taste the fervent friendship of a fishing pal like 

mine! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 49 
THE BATTLE OF THE LEVEE 

Those living along the shores of the Mississippi River are 
familiar with the annual "Battle of the Levee" which is waged 
in the spring of every year, when the swollen river threatens 
to burst its bounds and lay waste the fair bottom lands. A day 
and night vigil is maintained by a patrol which guards the 
narrow thread of rampart separating the raging river from 
thousands of acres of the most fertile land in the Mississippi 
River valley. It is marvelously like a battle, and when the 
levee breaks (as it did north of Burlington in the spring of 
1922) there is an element of tragedy in the ruin that ensues. 
***** 

Haggard and worn, but determined of soul, 
Ceaselessly fighting, the levee patrol 
Guarded the ramparts that sought to withstand 
The foeman that threatened the fair bottom land; 
A foeman all swollen with power and hate, 
Who clawed at the ramparts and beat at the gate, 
Crowding and snarling and crouching to spring — 
Here was a battle old Homer could sing! 

It seemed that the foeman would fail of his goal — 

He sullenly cringed to the valiant patrol; 

The bottom lands smiled when the tillers were told 

"The foe is subsiding — the levee will hold." 

And husbandry's fears and forebodings took wing — 

They knew not the foe was but crouching to spring; 

Then echoed a shout like a bolt from the blue: 

"A break in the rampart — the foeman is through!" 

Gaze at the breach, O ye valiant patrol — 
Here is a sight that will sicken your soul! 



50 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Seething and raging, the enemy pours 
In through the gap, and exultingly roars; 
Crumbling the ramparts with vindictive glee — 
Hurling its force like a riotous sea; 
Leaping and foaming with demon-like wrath — 
Sweeping and wasting all things in its path. 

Slowly but surely the ruin expands. 
Strangling the crops of the fair bottom lands; 
Stealthily creeping and claiming its prey, 
Ranging abroad w^ith a passion to slay. 
Relentless, resistless, the oncoming surge 
Grips the meek land like a pestilent scourge; 
Boundless the ravage and fearful the cost, 
And bitter the grief when that battle was lost! 

Over the lands that were waving with wheat, 
Fair, teeming lowlands that stretched at the feet, 
The enemy prowls like a demon possessed. 
Slinking afar to the hills on the west. 
Poets have sung of the horrors of strife, 
And pictured the wanton destruction of life; 
Oh, for a Homer with genius and soul 
To sing the defeat of the levy patrol! 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 51 

WHEN THE "LITTLE FELLER'S" ILL 

All the world seems draped in shadows that are sombre- 
like and gray, 

And you go about your business in an absent-minded way; 

And your former aims seem trifling, and the only thing 
worth while 

Is that Billion Dollar laddy with the Million Dollar 
smile. 

And you eat your meals in silence, and your heart with 
dread expands 

As your eye seeks out the corner where his empty high- 
chair stands; 

For your soul is strangely smitten, and a numbing, dead- 
'ning chill 

Seems to grip your very heart-strings — when the "Little 
Feller's" ill. 

Then a shadow seems to liirk in every room, on every face. 
And a solemn kind of stillness seems to hover o'er the 

place. 
And it centers in the bedroom where he lies, so frail 

and white. 
With the "Little Feller's" Mother bravely waging still 

the fight. 
And you scatter toys upon the bed, and strive to coax a 

smile 
From the wan and wasted features — with an aching 

heart the while, 
For you know in times of sickness there's one place you 

cannot fill, 
And he only wants his Mother when the "Little Feller's" 

ill. 



52 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Comes the crisis, when the fever seems to blast the one 

you love; 
Then, as needle to the pole-star, turns your soul to God 

above, 
And you cast aside your cloak of pride — with scalding, 

blinding tears, 
You supplicate the God to whom you haven't prayed for 

years ; 
And you promise if He'll only pull that "Little Feller" 

thru. 
You will be a better man and lead the life He wants you 

to; 
For you never know your helplessness and need of God 

until 
Grim Death peers in the window — and your "Little 

Feller's" ill! 

But at last there comes the day when gladness glows in 

every face. 
And he occupies his high-chair in his old accustomed place ; 
And the family cluster all about to watch him smile once 

more. 
As he did before the fever seared the winsome look he 

wore ; 
And you wait upon his every wish, and humor every whim, 
For you cannot do enough to just express your love for 

him, 
And little does he know your soul has plumbed the depths 

of hell, 
As you gaily hover 'round him when the "Little Feller's" 

well! 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 53 

THE "DADDY'S BOY" 

He always was a "Mother's Boy" until the age of three, 
And then there seemed to stir in him a kind of dignity; 
He bossed his elder sisters, and he ceased to play with dolls, 
And donned a mannish swagger with his little overalls. 
And then it was he dogged my steps and mimicked all my 

ways. 
Recounting deeds of valor just to win my word of praise. 
And though he made me dizzy with his prattle, I was glad 
To have that "Little Feller" always hang around his dad. 

And well do I recall the day he stubbornly declined 

To sit beside his mother in his high-chair when we dined. 

But moved his plate around by mine, and from that day 

began 
To eat his meals beside his dad, just like a "reg'lar man." 
And now I dish up all his grub, and butter all his bread, 
And every now and then I pause to pat his touseled head. 
Because it kind of tickles me to see that little tad 
Forego his Mother's petting just to hang around his dad. 

And yet I always notice when he bumps his little head, 
Or stubs his toe, or barks his shin, and bitter tears are shed. 
He flies right to his mother, like a birdling to its nest, 
And dries his scalding tears upon her sympathetic breast. 
And then I feel my uselessness in matters of the heart — 
I long to offer comfort, but I do not have the art. 
For when his skies are clouded, he forgets about his dad — 
He only wants his mother — and he wants her "mighty 
bad!" 



54 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Yes, fathers' kindly counsel may afford some slight relief, 
But mothers still must comfort when the heart is bowed 

with grief; 
And though the hurt be childhood bump or pang of later 

years, 
The mother heart is big enough to staunch the flowing 

tears. 
And so, my "Little Feller," when you tread Life's thorny 

way, 
And bump your head, and stub your toe, and falter in 

the fray. 
And trouble looms before you as it never did before — 
Just take it to your mother, son — that's what a mother's 

for! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 55 

THE FRAIL CHILD 

There is nothing quite so rest|ul to my heart, at close of 

day, 
As to puff my friendly briar and watch the little children 

play ; 
And 'tis difficult indeed to say which child I love the best, 
But I somehow always pick the one that's frailer than the 

rest — 
Whose limbs are not so sturdy, and whose sickly, pallid 

turn. 
And wan and wistful features, fill the mind with grave 

concern ; 
And altho I love them all, my heart's affections linger 

there — 
The flower that droops and languishes receives our ten- 

d'rest care. 

To my mind there's nothing sadder — nothing harder to 

explain. 
Than to see a little child who early suffers grief and pain — 
Who gazes out upon the world with weary, sorrowful eyes, 
While his sturdy brothers' merry shouts are echoed to the 

skies. 
'Tis the sickly child, the cripple, or the one with halting 

speech, 
Who has tasted bitter sorrow — that's the child I want 

to reach ; 
And in passing groups of children, I have oft retraced 

my track, 
Just to greet that little kiddie and to pat him on the back. 



56 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Oh, ye host of sickly children, on whose face of pallid hue 

Tragic sorrow casts its shadow — here's a heart that 
beats for you! 

For I know just how it feels to watch the long days 
wax and wane 

With the wistful eyes of childhood, when the heart is 
ag'd by pain. 

And there's little Life can bring them that will serve to 
compensate 

For the ache of blighted childhood — solace often comes 
too late. 

Yes, I love to cheer and comfort every child with hand- 
icap — 

For a ling'ring pang reminds me I was just that kind 

of chap! 

♦ 
'To little Junior Golden, in whose eyes I can read some of the 
thoughts here sought to be expressed, this poem is tenderly 
dedicated, with the heartfelt hope that he will triumph over his 
handicaps as I, to an extent, have triumphed over mine. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 57 

JUST A-WISHIN' 

When the icy grip of winter locks the streams and strips 
the land 

Of its verdant summer beauty, with a cold, relentless hand, 

Then my fancy loves to revel 'mongst the joys of other 
days, 

And for hours I sit and ponder in a kind of mental haze ; 

And a restlessness comes o'er me that I cannot quite ex- 
plain — 

A persistent, nameless yearning that 'twere useless to 
restrain, 

And I feel just like a prisoner who longs to glimpse the 
sky, 

As I pace the confines of my room and heave a weary 
sigh — 

Just a-wishin' — 

I was fishin'! 

And when I fire the furnace on these wild and stormy 

nights, 
There's a corner in my cellar where my eye sometimes 

alights 
On a battered minnow-bucket, and some lines and fishin' 

poles, 
And a pair of rubber-boots with slough-mud clinging to 

the soles. 
As I gaze upon these friends of old, in reminiscent mood. 
Then again there comes the yearning for the woodland 

solitude, 
And I seem to sense the sunlight of a glorious summer's 

day, 



58 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

As I rummage thru my tackle in a fond and foolish way — 
Just a-wishin' — 

I was fishin' ! 

If there's one thing that I cherish and that gold could 

never buy, 
'Tis the memory of those days I've spent beneath the 

open sky, 
And altho I love my fellow-man, I think I love him best 
When he sits across the camp-fire as the sun sinks in the 

west. 
And I wonder if you "big" men, whose whole time is 

occupied 
With affairs of State and Finance that you cannot thrust 

aside. 
Don't at times revolt and sicken at the hardness of your 

fate? 
Don't you have your wistful moments when you pause 

and meditate — 

Just a-wishin' — 

You was fishin'? 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 59 



THAT BOY OF MINE 

Confiding, guileless, heeding still 
The dictates of parental will; 
And yet at times inclined to brood 
In sullen and defiant mood. — 
With changing voice there stirs in him 
The vagrant impulse, wayward whim; 
Now flaunts his will, now yields to me — 
In sooth, a strange anomaly — 
That boy of mine! 

And little does it comfort me 
To argue that this thing must be — 
That boys must learn the ways of men 
And "jump the traces" now and then; 
For sad reflection well has taught 
'Tis grim experience, dearly bought. — 
By venturing down the "primrose" route 
We learned the "ropes" — but how about 
That boy of mine? 

Ah, could I lead him, day by day, 
Where pitfalls lurk, and softly say, 
"This place, my boy, was where I strayed; 
Here I despaired — my Mother prayed," 
And thus point out each miry hole 
That yawns to snare his gentle soul ; — 
Could I but walk close at his side, 
No vain regrets should e'er deride 
That boy of mine! 



6o FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Oh, gracious God, who gave to me 
This lad — I ask but this of Thee, 
That I may always understand 
His trials, and not let loose his hand; 
That I may mould his plastic mind 
In manner gentle, tactful, kind — 
All in accord with Thine own plan, 
And rear into a clean-souled man 
That boy of mine! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 6i 

BILLY AND ED 

I have fished a deal, in my modest way, 

In river and lake and slough, 
And I love to tell of the strings I've caught, 

As all real fishermen do. 
I had thought my record was passing fair — 

A notion that now has fled. 
Since the wonderful tales I heard one night, 

As told by Billy and Ed. 

One wonderful night on the cabin porch. 

On the Mississippi's shore, 
When the bullfrog's boom thru the woodland gloom 

A sorrowful cadence bore; 
When the fireflies sparkled and seemed to vie 

With the starlight overhead, 
I listened entranced to the fishing yarns 

As spun by Billy and Ed. 

Up from the gloom of the cabin porch 

There rose with the ring of truth. 
The colorful narratives, freshly welled 

From hearts of eternal youth; 
And yet when a match lit a blackened briar. 

The glow that was softly shed 
Revealed to me Billy's departing locks 

And the silvered thatch of Ed. 

They told me of catches of bass and pike. 

Of salmon, sturgeon and trout; 
Of strings they had captured in streams remote, 



62 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

That I'd only read about. 
And when they had finished their thrilling yarns, 

The pride of my heart and head 
Was humbled and awed by the magic rod 

Wielded by Billy and Ed. 

I have fished a deal, in my modest way. 

In river and lake and slough. 
But I sometimes feel I have reached the end. 

And my fishing days are through ; 
The record I made seems a puny thing. 

The old-time fervor has fled, 
'Tis useless to fish when the choicest fish 

Were caught by Billy and Ed! 

(June 15-17, 1922. Otter Island, with Billy Burhans and 
Ed. Wesner.) 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 63 

THE WITCHERY OF THE WILD 

You may think you know your fellow as you meet him 

every day, 
And exchange the usual greeting in the customary way, 
But you haven't scratched the surface — you have failed 

to penetrate 
The shell he's built about him since he grew to man's 

estate ; 
For his soul is all unsounded, and his heart's a mystery, 
And he moves behind the curtain of conventionality. 
Yet below this baffling surface lurks the fervor of a child — 
You will never understand him 'til you get him in the 

wild. 

When you strip him of his city duds and take him out with 

you 
To the pathless woods and silent stream, and camp a week 

or two, 
Clear away from ties that link him to his multiplied af- 
fairs, 
Far away from scenes that sink him in the sea of business 

cares, 
All surrounded by the jungle, wild and lonely, and apart 
From the things that cramp and hinder him — then watch 

him spill his heart! 
For beneath his stern exterior dwells the ardor of a 

child — 
You will never sound his heart-strings 'til you get him 

in the wild. 



64 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

When the evening meal is over, and you light your pipes 

and lie 
In your blankets by the camp-fire, 'neath the wide and 

starry sky; 
As the shadows slowly deepen in the jungle solitude, 
And the voices of the night induce the meditative mood, 
Then he bares his inmost feelings — secrets you alone 

may hear. 
And he stands revealed before you stripped of all the 

world's veneer, 
For away down in his nature there's the candor of a 

child — 
You will never learn to love him 'til you get him in the 

wild. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 65 

THE FABLE OF THE BILLY GAR 

Did you ever embark on a fishing expedition with a partic- 
ularly choice collection of minnows or worms, only to see the 
entire supply disappear piecemeal into the voracious maw of 
the prowling "Billy Gar?" If not, you have still to meet the 
supreme test as to whether, under extreme provocation, you are 
capable of restraining the primeval impulse to rock the hills with 
lurid and picturesque profanity. I have fished all day and 
caught nothing but Billy Gars. I have so strewn the bank 
with their writhing forms that there was scarcely room to sit 
down. I have broken their necks, slit their throats and stuck 
them snoot down in the sand, with their tails waving solemnly 
in the air like palm trees in the desert. I have examined them 
at close range, felt of their slimy bodies, shuddered under the 
baneful gleam of their eye, and pried their wicked jaws apart 
to peer into their ravenous throats. And after such intimate 
association and study I have been enabled to evolve the follow- 
ing theory as to their origin. 

The Lord once labored fondly, in a kind, forgiving mood, 
To build another Eden in the woodland solitude; 
He set a sheet of water there that rippled in the breeze, 
And half concealed the picture with a frame of nodding 

trees. 
And then He stocked the waters with the fish of gamey 

breed, 
And bade them thrive and multiply, and none their course 

impede. 
He cast a loving eye upon His handiwork — and then 
He left that fairy region to delight the Sons of Men. 

The Devil, roaming thru the wood, espied this sylvan dell. 
And, knowing Who had fashioned it, invoked the wrath of 
hell ; 



66 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

He sneered at all the beauty and he cursed each nodding 

tree, 
And riled the placid waters with a fierce and fiendish glee. 
And then he squatted on his tail and stroked his cloven 

chin, 
And summoned to his aid the devious schemes and arts of 

sin ; 
And brooding there, the Devil, with the sole intent to 

mar. 
Produced that foul abortion that we call the Billy Gar! 

He took a slimy snake, and with a deft and devilish skill 
He fastened on some fins and then a long and saw-toothed 

bill; 
Then breathing in its gaping jaws the instincts of the 

shark. 
And the snarling, snapping malice of the cur without its 

bark, 
He added the repulsiveness and horror of the bat, 
And a skilful, subtle blending of the vulture and the rat; 
Then spat upon his handiwork — a loathsome, foul array, 
And cast it in the waters there to lurk and prowl and prey. 

And hence it is when you and I seek out that fishing hole, 

Its calm and peaceful waters hide a snare that frets our 
soul; 

Those sly and slinking Billy Gars are prowling every- 
where. 

To steal our bait and snarl our lines and make us tear 
our hair. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 67 

We yank them out upon the bank and watch them writhe 

and squirm, 
But a million more are waiting for our minnow or our 

worm ; 
And every time our ripping oaths go forth to rock the 

earth, 
The Devil's there behind a tree all doubled up with 

mirth ! 



68 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

FISHERMAN'S REVERIE 

When all nature lies a-sleeping, and the blighting frost 
is creeping 
With the chill of Death o'er woods and field and 
stream, 
And the skies are dark and scowling, and the wintry 
winds are howling — 
Then I love to sit beside the fire and dream. 
And I feel within me burning a persistent, nameless 
yearning 
For a jaunt along a dusty, winding road, 
To a languid slough that's sleeping in the timber, where 
the leaping 
Of the bass proclaims the finny tribe's abode. 
I can hear the drowsy murmur of the insects, and the 
firmer 
Note of woodland songsters calling o'er the slough ; 
I can see the willows waving over waters that are laving 
Verdant shores all green and fresh with morning dew. 
I can see my bobber dancing in a manner all entrancing 

As it gaily rides the sparkling, sunlit waves; 
I can hear the bull-frogs booming, I can smell the wild 
flowers blooming — 
I can picture all those scenes my nature craves. 
And while thus my fancy wanders, bleak and cold the 
north wind thunders, 
And the snow is drifting high outside the door; 
But tho winter winds beat harder, they can never cool 
the ardor 
That recalls those wondrous fishing trips of yore. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 69 

And as dreamily I ponder o'er those joyous days, I won- 
der 
When the spring-time comes again, as come it must. 
Will it find me, hope still springing in a heart that's ever 
singing. 
With my pole and tackle, jogging thru the dust. 
To the languid slough that's sleeping in the timber, where 
the leaping 
Of the bass adds animation to the view; 
Where the willows still are waving over waters that are 
laving 
Verdant shores all green and fresh with morning dew? 



70 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

THE HEARTHSIDE POETESS 

She's a poetess of merit, though her art is never seen 
On the shelves of literati, or in monthly magazine ; 
And I bow before her genius as a thing that's all divine, 
Though she never penned a sonnet or a sweetly flowing 

line. 
And while poets paint in glowing phrase the airy things 

of life, 
Yet I think there's more enduring inspiration in a wife. 
For her muse is not confined within a dry and musty tome. 
But it finds its full expression in the compass of the home. 

Why, her biscuits all are sonnets — and her light and 
fluffy bread 

Has more buoyancy about it than some poems I have read ; 

She puts poetry in puddings — every dish a soothing lay, 

And her wondrous Christmas dinners are an epic in their 
way. 

No, she doesn't woo the Goddess with a wild and va- 
cant stare. 

Or evolve a studied verse or two by rumpling up her 
hair — 

She just flits about the kitchen 'mongst her spices, flour 
and grease. 

And then straightway sets before me what I term a Mas- 
terpiece ! 

And her children are her lyrics — and 'tis there her gentle 

soul 
Wrought its noblest, fairest fancy, writ on Life's eternal 

scroll ; 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 71 

t,' And as lovingly I watch them romping now about my 

knees, 
Well I know not even Shakespeare framed a poem to rival 

these. 
Oh, I love a flowing metre, but there's none so sweetly 

sings 
As the rythm of her fingers when she sews on baby things, 
And my fond poetic fancy sets a halo o'er her head 
As I watch her in the ev'ning tuck the little tots in bed. 

For the songs of life are not all born within the singer's 

soul — 
He unconsciously reflects the light surrounding as a whole ; 
And behind the flights of fancy that delight the hearts of 

men, 
Dwells some unknown, unseen influence that guides the 

sentient pen. 
And if ever I shall write a verse that seems to sweetly 

sing, 
Or philosophize in terms that have a sound and whole- 
some ring, 
Well I know behind each worthy thought, each optimistic 

line, 
Stands — unseen, unheard, unknown — this hearthside 

poetess of mine! 



72 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
THE MODERN GOBLIN 

We have long ago graduated from that impressionable period 
of boyhood when goblins, ghosts and witches entered largely 
into our speculations, and yet many of us can doubtless recall 
the time when our hair would stand on end when our elders 
would read aloud (just before bedtime, usually) Whitcomb 
Riley's "Little Orphant Annie,'' where the poet draws a vivid 
and terrifying picture of the little boy "who wouldn't say his 
prayers," and of the little girl who would "alius laugh and 
grin," and of their sudden exit, via the goblin route, winding 
up with the gruesome refrain — 

"An' the Gobble-uns'll git you, if you don't watch out!" 

For me (and doubtless for countless other motorists) the 
goblin still exists, altho in a slightly altered form. He now 
prowls about on a motorcycle, with a star on the inside of his 
coat, and converses in a curt and summary manner, frequently 
wounding the feelings of mild and inoffensive motorists who 
cross his path and incur his displeasure. When I encounter him 
in my peregrinations he strikes the same terror to my heart as 
did the goblin of my boyhood, and I live in constant fear that 
some dark night he will "git me," as he "got" numerous of my 
friends. So — 

Before you drive your auto out and venture on your way, 
In silent meditation bow your head and humbly pray 
That Providence will guide you thru the labyrinth of laws 
Devised by some pedestrians to make the motorist pause. 
Examine well your auto lights — be sure that they are fit, 
And jump out every block or so to see that they are lit. 
And don't forget your Klaxon — see it has the proper 

tone, 
For if it sharps or flats a bit, 'twill cost you many a bone. 
And when you come to park your car, just watch what 

you're about — 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 73 

For the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 

Watch out! 

Once there was a motorist who "alius laughed and 

grinned," 
And held to scorn the auto laws — against them all he 

sinned. 
He didn't watch his lights at night, his Klaxon wouldn't 

toot; 
He speeded something awful, and he didn't give a hoot. 
His friends all gravely warned him, but he simply 

wouldn't quit, 
So one dark night they grabbed him when his tail-light 

wasn't lit. 
He argued and he pleaded, and he cussed a bit, but 

shucks ! 
They hauled him down before the Judge and soaked him 

'leven bucks. 
Just heed this solemn warning now, and watch what 

you're about — 
P'or the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 
* Watch out! 

So read your "Auto Laws" at night before you go to bed, 
And memorize some passages and ponder what you've 

read. 
And in the morning when you rise just clasp your hands 

and say, 



74 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

"I'll be a very humble little motorist today." 
And cultivate the lowly mien and deferential mood, 
And practice self-abasement, 'til your spirit is subdued ; 
For when you meet the motor-cop you've got to make him 

feel 
There's a suppliant and contrite heart behind the steering 

wheel. 
In apologetic manner, like some craven creep about — 
For the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 

Watch out! 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 75 

TO A GOLD STAR MOTHER 

With falt'ring hand I take my pen, 

All doubting whether mine the art 
To put in words the thoughts to soothe 

The anguish of a Mother's heart; 
And yet this Death, whose icy hand 

Has stilled the heart-beat of your son, 
Has claimed of me a loved one, too — 

He comes in time to every one. 

The silent grave, the vacant chair. 

Depress, but do not spell "The End;" 
He is not gone — he but precedes, 

And waits for you around the bend. 
A few brief years, and you and I, 

And all who now bestride Life's tide, 
Will reach that bend and wonder why 

We ever mourned for those who died. 

And fitter it would seem that they 

Should mourn for us who weep below, 
For life affords but fleeting joy. 

And much of lasting pain and woe. 
The burden from their shoulders fell 

The moment life's last spark was gone. 
While we, bereft of those we love. 

With saddened hearts must "carry on." 

Think not of him as one who treads 
With falt'ring feet an unknown way; 

He joins that happy host of souls 
Who all about us, every day, 



76 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

Are flinging off this earthly shell, 

And pressing toward the other shore, 

Where can be seen the outstretched arms 
Of all the loved ones gone before. 

He crossed the seas to fields of war. 

And suffered more than words can tell ; 
He smiled upon his bed of pain — 

He fought his fight, and fought it well. 
And now he's crossed another sea, 

To where there's neither war nor pain, 
And who of us who linger here 

Would think to call him back again? 

If Albert now could speak to me. 

Or guide the feeble pen I wield. 
The message he would send to you 

Would surely consolation yield; 
And as I close, I seem to feel 

His presence and his hand impel 
My pen to write this line to you — 

"Please do not grieve — for all is well!" 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 77 

THE JOURNEY'S END 

It's a rare exhilaration when you start out in your car, 

On some bright and balmy morning, and go touring trails 
afar. 

Over ways you never plied before, thru towns all strange 
and new — 

An enchanting panorama passing swiftly in review. 

Then your motor seems to leap with joy and sing a lilting 
air. 

And your soul expands in unison with thrills beyond com- 
pare. 

It's a rare exhilaration for the man behind the wheel. 

But it cannot quite compare with that sweet pleasure that 
you feel 
When your engine's humming homeward near the 
journey's end. 

There's a restless, roving spirit rules the auto vagabond, 

And it leads him ever onward to the unknown trail be- 
yond ; 

But despite this nameless yearning for the distant open 
road, 

Deep implanted in his nature is the love of his abode. 

And altho he boasts of mileage he has piled up with his 
car, 

And of pleasure he has gotten from extended tours afar, 

If you sound his soul you'll find his keenest joy was when 
he drew 

Near the place where first the old familiar landmarks came 
in view, 



78 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And his engine humming homeward near the jour- 
ney's end. 

For the trails of life are not all smooth and paved as we 

desire, 
But are fraught with many detours that are devious and 

dire, 
And they lead through murky regions where we meet with 

storm and flood, 
And treacherous, sunken quagmires where the soul is 

mired in mud ; 
And the way is strewn with dismal wrecks of cars of 

yesterday 
That could not stand the gruelling pace and fell beside the 

way. 
For many a hope is punctured there, and many skid to 

grief, 
And there's naught in all the weary grind compares with 

our relief 
When the soul is wending homeward near the journey's 
end. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 79 

MY NEIGHBOR'S CAR AND MINE 

My neighbor drives a classy and luxurious sedan — 
His greatest pleasure seems to be to keep it spick-and-span ; 
He never drives it in the rain for fear that it vi^ill rust, 
And with a feather-duster he removes the flecks of dust. 
With sponge and cloth and chamois-skin he shines it 

every day, 
And drives about the city in a stately kind of way ; 
Or, if he ventures out of town, you'll find he never fails 
To keep his polished chariot on the marked and beaten 

trails. 
And no one can deny it is a pretty thing to see — 
And yet, somehow, my neighbor's car does not appeal to 

me. 

The battered boat I drive about has lost its pristine glow, 
To look at it you would not think the poor old wreck 

would go; 
All scratched and marred and travel-stained, it looks the 

very deuce. 
But nobly has she weathered through two seasons of 

abuse. 
And every week I pile it high with junk of every sort. 
Like boots and bait and seines and poles, and other things 

of sport. 
And drive thru swamps and jungles, with a fishing-pal 

or two, 
O'er highways all uncharted, to a wild and lonely slough. 
And when she brings me home at night, thru darkness 

storm and flood, 
I use no feather-duster — I just shovel off the mud! 



8o FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

The car my neighbor drives is just the thing, we will 

agree, 
To take some dainty ladies to some dainty social tea ; 
Immaculate, it threads its way 'mongst cars of lowly 

breed, 
Its engine breathing softly, like some rare and blooded 

steed. 
The modest car I ramble in is of a rougher sort — 
While socially she's down and out, she's mighty fine for 

sport ; 
She brings into my life the boundless pleasure of a child, 
She takes me from the beaten path and links me with the 

wild. 
And while I much admire my neighbor's car, with gloss 

and shine, 
I have a downright love for that old fishing-bus of mine. 

Thus cars are almost human and reflect the owner's mood, 
And give us all an insight to his mental attitude. 
For some men run to polish and refinements and display — 
They move in glitt'ring circles and they ply the beaten 

way ; 
While others in a rougher and a wilder mould are cast, 
And carelessly they run their course ere youth itself is 

past. 
Their way is full of detours, and they set a grinding pace 
Up dizzy heights, thru ruts and swamps — a wild and 

furious race. 
They garner many glorious thrills — and much of stress 

and strife; 
They hit the junk-pile sooner — but they sip the cream 

of life. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 8i 

KISSES 

Of the rapture of the kiss the poets sing in glowing terms, 
And tho Science coldly warns us 'tis a mere exchange of 

germs, 
Our enlightened age has not evolved a thing to take the 

place 
Of this token of affection that will perish with the race. 
There are kisses lightly given ('tis a flippant modern art) 
That are merely lip-contractions — not emotions of the 

heart ; 
But there's something in the action that is all devoid of 

sham, 
When my "Little Feller" kisses me and smears my face 

with jam! 

Every morning at the table when I leisurely arise 
From my second cup of coflFee that puts sparkle in my 

eyes, 
He's the first to scramble off his chair and gaily find his 

way 
To the place where I'm preparing for the duties of the 

day. 
And he flings his arms about my neck, and prints upon 

my face 
An affectionate and sticky kiss that always leaves a trace 
Of the jam or egg or butter that his own small visage 

bore — 
And I never wipe it off until I get outside the door! 

Cleopatra's honeyed kisses lured Mark Antony astray, 
While for Grecian Helen's kisses men engaged in mortal 
fray; 



82 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And the kisses of DuBarry and of Madame Pompadour 
Changed the destiny of nations by the potent spell they 

bore. 
But these rare and perfumed kisses do not tempt my hum- 
ble lip — 
From a sweeter, purer fountain springs the Nectar which 

I sip, 
And a Nectar freely given — for I do not have to beg 
For the priceless baby kiss that smears my face with jam 
or egg! 

I have thought at times that Fate has frowned unkindly 

on my life, 
And has thrust me in the battle line unfitted for the 

strife ; 
But I know that what has been ordained no art can 

now undo — 
I have shouldered up my burden and I've tried to smile 

it through. 
But kind Providence has touched me with her Motherly 

caress, 
And has placed a new construction on the meaning of 

success, 
For altho my plans all crumble — tho I drain Life's 

bitt'rest dram, 
There is solace in the baby kiss that smears my face with 

jam! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 83 
THE DREAM CHILD 

An Old Man's Reverie 
Childless and old and desolate, 

As my hopes with my years decline, 
Close to my heart I cherish the thought 

Of a little dream child of mine. 
Only a creature of fancy, 

Conceived of my hopes and dreams. 
He grew to a living presence 

And shared all my plans and schemes. 
He should bear my name and my likeness, 

And have all my money could buy; 
We should be ever the best of pals, — ■ 

That little dream child and I. 
For years I waited and hoped and prayed 

That God would send him to me, 
But all in vain, for my dream child dwells 

In the land of "Not To Be." 
The years have fled and my hope is dead. 

And I've almost ceased to mourn 
For the dearest wish of my inmost soul — 

My little dream child, unborn. 
And yet ofttimes my fancy roams 

To that land of "Not To Be," 
Where a winsome brown-eyed laddy calls 

And beckons afar to me. 
My eyes grow dim, and my old heart warms 

With a boundless love, and it seems 
That nothing can fill the void in my life 

But that little child of my dreams. 



84 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
TO CONSTANCE CAROL 

(Who Wept Upon Graduating from Kindergarten, January 
26, 1922) 

I found thee weeping, little girl — 
Thy chubby cheeks all streaked with tears; 
And strange it seemed that sombre grief 
Should thus assail thy tender years. 
With choking sobs and heaving breast 
And quiv'ring lips, thou didst outpour 
The bitter cause of all thy woe — 
Thy Kindergarten days are o'er! 

They taught thee how to skip and dance 
And quaintly curtsy, and repeat 
With lisping tongue the nurs'ry rhymes 
That still to childish ears are sweet. 
Thy eager mind was there regaled 
With charming tales of fairy lore; 
But now a sterner era dawns — 
Thy Kindergarten days are o'er! 

And who can guess how brightly-hued 
This period in thy life hath been ; 
One fleeting year of song and play — 
One joyous, care-free Carolin 
Whose strains were wafted to our home 
And echoed there as ne'er before — 
Ah, Constance, dear, we're sorry, too, 
Thy Kindergarten days are o'er! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 85 

And may the glow of thought now thine 
Still linger with thee all thy days, 
Though gnawing grief and heavy care 
Would turn thy skies to drabs and grays. 
Thy teachers showed thee how to play, 
And opened for thee Fancy's door; 
And Fancy still is thine and mine — 
Though Kindergarten days are o'er! 

Your Father 



86 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

"GEORGE" 

Oh, little lad with eyes of blue! 
The April day we welcomed you 
We realized and understood 
The wondrous joy of Parenthood. 

We thanked the gracious God above 
For you — a miracle of Love ; 
No words can voice the boundless joy 
We felt in you, our blue-eyed boy. 

Untarnished is thy soul today — 
No sordid past stands in thy way; 
And yet perforce there'll come to thee 
Temptation — such is God's decree. 

Oh, little boy with eyes of blue. 
With soul so pure and heart so true — 
When first you learn the ways of men, 
Oh, little boy, God guide you then! 

My early hopes and plans have met 
With many a crushing blow, and yet 
The things that I had aimed to do, 
Perchance I'll see achieved by you. 

Thru you I'll gain those things I prized 
And see my hopes all realized. 
You'll be the man I might have been ; 
Wherein I failed, my boy shall win. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 87 

Oh, little lad with eyes of blue, 
We place our fondest hopes in you. 
If parents' love can aught avail, 
In you the good must e'er prevail. 

Your Father 

December, 1912 



88 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

"DOROTHY" 

Oh, little girl with eyes of brown, 
'Twere fitting that a cherub's crown 
Should hover o'er thee, as of yore 
The Baby in the manger wore. 

How full of charm thy winsome ways! 
How dear to us thy baby days! 
Could we but keep thee ever thus, 
This life would hold but joy for us. 

But with a feeling of dismay 
We pause and view that distant day 
When others, too, will idolize 
Our little girl with dusky eyes. 

Too well we know our love for thee 
Must yield to other love — and he 
Will take our child to share his fate 
And leave us lone and desolate. 

Now, at least, thou art no other's — 
Just thy Father's and thy Mother's ; 
None but we can now caress thee — 
Our's the only love to bless thee. 

I gaze upon thee sleeping, now, 
The peace of childhood on thy brow; 
A dolly clasped upon thy breast, 
Serene in dreamless, guileless rest. 



FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 89 

Oh, little girl, my prayer for thee 
Is that thy soul may ever be 
As pure and hallowed as the light 
That lingers on thy face tonight. 

Your Father 

Christmas, 1912 



90 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
ELEGY ON A DESPOILED FISHING HOLE 

Drainage or overflow frequently work havoc with fishing 
holes along the Mississippi River, blighting the timber, convert- 
ing charming patches of water into dismal swamps, and other- 
wise mutilating the natural disposition of the scenery. When 
one returns to a well-loved spot after an interval of a year or 
more, and gazes upon the altered and devastated scene, the emo- 
tions inspired are of a sombre and saddening description. Had 
Thomas Gray written his immortal Elegy in such a spot, instead 
of in the quaint old country churchyard in England, what a pic- 
ture he would have drawn! 

With eager tread that distance never tires, 

And undiminished ardor in my soul, 
I seek the road, o'ergrown with weeds and briars, 

That leads me to a former fishing hole. 

Over the bluff my joyous way I wend, 

Thru silent wood and long-abandoned farm. 

And come at last unto my journey's end — 
To gaze upon a scene of ravished charm! 

Here was a spot whose lure has called to me 
When worldly drudg'ry tortured and oppressed ; 

A spot whose languid beauty seemed to be 
With all the charms of Paradise possessed; 

A sheet of shimm'ring water, fed by springs 
That trickled 'mongst the roots of lofty trees; 

A bit of God's own handiwork that brings 
The soul of man in worship to its knees. 

Here have I spread my blanket on the grass, 

And hearkened to the mournful night-birds' call ; 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 91 

Here have I sought the sunfish and the bass, 
From early dawn till ev'ning shadows fall ; 

But ne'er again — for now an altered scene 
Spreads like a sore before the saddened eye; 

And Memory's fairest images careen, 
Recalling all the charm of days gone by. 

Gone are the trees that fringed the limpid lake. 
Beneath whose shelt'ring branches I have lain, 

And 'mongst the tangled brush and weedy brake 
I glimpse their tomb-like stumps that now remain. 

In sorrowful mood I seek the sheltered hole 

Whose dreamy depths once held the gamey bass. 

But like the slough that mires a sodden soul, 
There stretches now a stagnant, foul morass ; 

A loathsome sheet of water, covered o'er 
With greenish scum that seems to putrify; 

Beneath, a slimy brood the slough-mud bore — 
Above, the gruesome, hov'ring dragon-fly. 

Festers the foul scene in the noonday heat, 
Drawing abhorent creatures from afar; 

While in the sluggish waters at my feet 

There wheels and darts the prowling billy-gar. 

A lazy turtle parts the scummy tide, 

A water-snake is gliding through the sedge; 

A bull-frog hits the water at my side. 

And stirs the mud about the water's edge. 



92 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

A li'ng'ring glance, and then I turn away, 

With soul immersed in gloom of saddened thought; 

And for the sportsmen of a future day, 
I leave this Epitaph to mark the spot : 

THE EPITAPH 

Here lies a spot that freshly yielded me 

The sweetest hours that ever lulled my soul; 

Nothing this life has offered seemed to be 
As soothing as this sylvan fishing-hole. 

Kindly its charms were spread before my eye, 
Gladly I sipped the cup so freely urged; 

Gently upon its bosom would I lie 

And feel within my earthly grossness purged. 

Many an ardent hope of youth has waned. 

Many a fond illusionment has fled ; 
Dulled is the glow that ne'er can be regained — 

And now this well-loved fishing-hole is dead! 

Thus are our dearest treasures swept aside, 
Thus are our sweetest memories erased ; 

Thus are our ideals, once our youthful pride. 
Thrown to the ground and ruthlessly defaced. 

God of all nature, hearken to my plea: 
Though like this spot I wither and decay, 

Grant me the boon through Memory's eye to see 
The beauty that was here a former day! 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 93 

CONFESSION 

"Now, I lay me down to sleep; 

"I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep — " 

I cease my work and bow my head ; 
A solemn stillness fills the air, 
As, kneeling at his Mother's knee. 
My boy repeats that old, old prayer. 
The simple words are glorified 
And breathe a spirit all divine; 
And, rising from those childish lips, 
They touch this hard old heart of mine. 
They waft me back to childhood days 
When I was wont at night to kneel 
And utter that same prayer, for then 
My faith was strong and God was real. 
And, Oh, the sense of peace and rest 
They brought to me at close of day ! 
But now — the words seem meaningless. 
And God is vague and far away. 

" — If I should die before I wake, 
"I pray the. Lord, my soul to take." 

Far better had it been for me 

If I had died before the day 

I lost that precious childhood faith 

And learned to doubt and ceased to pray. 

This life has brought me many things 

That I esteemed of worth, and yet 

How paltry seem they to me now! 



94 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

How trite, and tinged with vain regret! 
Some knowledge of the ways of men — 
(Experience gained at bitter cost!) 
Some worldly goods of trifling worth — 
These have I gained — what have I lost? 
That near companionship with God — 
The consciousness of being led 
By One who loves ; and peace of soul 
And simple faith — all, all have fled! 

Unhappy is the soul that seeks 
To analyze its faith, until 
Too late we realize 'tis gone 
And cannot be regained at will. 
Oh, boy of mine, you little know 
How priceless is that faith of thine! 
If guarded well, 'twill bring to thee 
A peace that no more can be mine. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 95 
"OLD FOLKS AT HOME" 

The country has been inflicted recently with a flood of so- 
called "Southern" lullabies, many of which are being sung in 
public gatherings with but indifferent fervor. They are tune- 
ful, perhaps — but not appealing. Occasionally, however, the 
song-leader will receive an inspiration and start the fellows 
oflf on "The Old Folks At Home," or "Old Black Joe," — and 
then watch 'em SING! 

Oh, I'm sick of singing "Mammy," and of "Sunny Ten- 
nessee," 
And of "dear old Alabamy" — for they're all alike to me. 

me. 
And I make this frank confession that I utterly despise 
The cheap and maudlin croon of these fake "Southern" 

lullabies. 
For their reign is evanescent — just a fleeting month, at 

best, 
And the message that they carry never gets beneath the 

vest. 
But there's one that never, never dies — no matter vv^here 

you roam, 
There will be fond hearts that love to sing of "Old Folks 

At Home." 

"All de world am sad and weary, 

Eb-rywhere I roam; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from de old folks at home!" 

Watch the faces all about you as that choiois swells and 

dies — 
Note the far-away expression and the moisture of the eyes. 



96 FISHIN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

See the firm-set visage soften and the lines of care depart, 

As that melody of Foster's weaves its spell about the heart. 

You can read a wistful longing in each rapt and care- 
worn face, 

For their thoughts are of their boyhood in some dear and 
distant place; 

And the sorrows of poor Foster hover o'er like Southland 
gloam, 

As the soul outpours its yearnings in "The Old Folks At 
Home." 

"All up and down de whole creation 

Sadly I roam, 
Still longing for de old plantation 

And for de old folks at home." 

Oh, I'm sick of singing "Mammy," and of "Sunny Ten- 
nessee," 
And of "dear old Alabamy" — they don't touch the heart 

of me; 
For they're all inspired by lucre — all a product of the 

mart. 
While the melodies of Foster breathe the rapture of the 

heart. 
When I feel all worn and fretted with the turmoil of the 

day. 
And my tired and tortured spirit craves some gentle, 

soothing lay. 
Then I love to seek my arm-chair in the tranquil evening 

gloam. 
And to hear the voice of loved ones singing "Old Folks 

At Home." 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 97 
WHEN "BROWNIE" DIED 

He was only a dog — and not a pedigreed dog, at that. 
Reckoned in dollars and cents, the loss occasioned by his death 
was inconsiderable. But he was a friendly dog, on speaking 
and romping terms with every child in the neighborhood, and 
to the tender heart of childhood his death was something akin 
to a calamity. At noon one day he darted in front of my car, 
and both wheels passed over his body. His front legs were 
broken, but by using his hind legs and his nose, he half dragged, 
half jerked his shattered frame to the parking, where he stretched 
out to die. School had just dismissed, and in a very short 
time a solemn circle of children formed about him. I shall 
never forget the picture; the noonday sun shining down upon 
a mangled dog; the circle of sorrowing children who had 
romped with him but a few hours before, and who loved him 
as only children can love a canine friend ; one of the little lads 
with his hat removed — an unconscious recognition of the pres- 
ence of death; quivering lips and moistened eyes all about; 
truly, a tragedy of childhood. He was only a dog — but he 
loved the children, and his last act was to wearily raise his 
head, gaze at the circle of pitying eyes, wag his tail as a token 
of friendship — and then the light went out. He was only a 
dog — but the grief of that group of children was inexpressible, 
and, tho it was no fault of mine, I felt strangely like a criminal 
who had robbed childhood of one of its dearest possessions. 
Thru her tears, my dark-eyed girl asked me to write some- 
thing about "Brownie." It was my car that killed him. It 
shall be my pen to sing his requiem. 

No dog was he of pedigree — but when his mangled frame 
Lay stretched beneath the noonday sun, the little children 

came 
And formed a silent circle 'round the spot where 

"Brownie's" breath 
Was coming in convulsive gasps — the agony of death. 



98 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

And when the end approached, he raised his head from 

off the ground 
And turned a loving eye upon his playmates gathered 

'round, 
And bade them all a mute farewell, and bravely, feebly 

tried 
To wag his friendly tail — and it was thus that 

"Brownie" died. 

No dog was he of pedigree — but when he lifeless lay, 
The silent band of children there disbursed and walked 

away 
With bitter tears and heaving sobs, and sad, dejected air, 
And the glory of the noonday sun seemed clouded every- 
where. 
And when the word went swiftly forth that "Brownie" 

met his end, 
From blocks around the kiddies came to see their faithful 

friend. 
And gazed awhile in silent awe, and mutely turned aside 
To hide the covert tears that flowed the day that 
"Brownie" died. 

No dog was he of pedigree — but figures of the mart 

Can not compute or value the affections of the heart; 

And some will say there's one dog less to clutter up the 
street. 

And just a dollar lopped from off the next year's tax re- 
ceipt ; 

But the loss to happy childhood, in whose heart he was 
enshrined, 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 99 

Is something that can never be computed or defined, 
And the measure of their grief was such that furtively 

I dried 
A tear that welled up from my heart the day that 

"Brownie" died. 

No dog was he of pedigree — and theologians say 

The soul of him will not survive to greet the Judgment 

Day; 
But little children loved him, and his mission here on 

earth 
Was to make the children happy — and he thereby proved 

his worth. 
And despite my churchly teachings, something whispers 

me 'tis true, 
That if children go to heaven, faithful dogs will go there 

too. 
And abiding love assures me that a soul all true and tried 
Went to romp with heaven's children on the day that 

"Brownie" died! 



loo FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 
"LET THE REST OF THE WORLD GO BY" 

I witnessed a street scene the other day that I shall carry 
with me for many a day. A man and a woman, both sightless, 
stood at a street corner, singing, he with a violin and she with 
a guitar. The harmony was doubtful, and there was a weary, 
wistful note in their song that was depressing. But when they 
sang "Let the Rest of the World Go By," it seemed as though 
their hearts lay open before me, and I could see and hear the 
throb of their saddened souls. 

They stood at the curb of a busy street, 

'Midst the noonday traffic and din, 
She with a battered and worn guitar, 

And he with an old violin, 
Facing the heedless and hurrying crowd 

With a sunken and sightless eye, 
And here is the song they passed to the throng — 

"Let the rest of the world go by!" 

Immersed in the gloom of eternal night, 

They stand at the curb and sing, 
While the sombre strum of the old guitar 

Joins the sob of the bow and string; 
Wistfully waiting and straining the ear 

For the clink of the coins that buy 
A roof for their head and a crust of bread — 

While the rest of the world goes by. 

The music of Life is a joyous thing. 

And carols a message of hope. 
But sweeter the cadence of muted string 

That is touched by the hands that grope. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS loi 

It throbs with emotions rooted in depths 

Never plumbed by the seeing eye; 
All dauntless the heart that can sing apart 

While the rest of the world goes by. 

And now when I rail at my plans that fail, 

And Fate wears a ghastly grin, 
I hark to the strum of that old guitar, 

And the wail of that violin. 
And the quav'ring voices whose prayer ascends 

To the throne of the God on high, 
As they plead in song to the heedless throng, 

While the rest of the world goes by. 



I02 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

WHAT WILL THEY SAY? 

What will they say when my work Is done, 

And Life fades out with the setting sun? 
"That he builded a business of goodly size, 
And emblazoned his name on financial skies? 
That his standing was shown in Bradstreet and Dun, 
And 'Big Business paused when his course was run ? 
That his name was sufficient on bond or note. 
And the banks all honored the checks he wrote? 
That his record was clean, and he never swerved 
From his steadfast course to success deserved?" 

All very well, in a worldly way — 

And yet not the things I hope they'll say. 

When Life goes out with the dying day, 

These are the things that I hope they'll say: 

"That he greeted the morn with a snatch of song. 
And whistled and smiled when all things went wrong ; 
That he treasured the friendship of child and brute 
Far more than he cherished the world's repute; 
That if ever he wavered and walked astray, 
He groped his way back in a penitent way; 
That a heartening hail and a cheering smile 
Will be missed from the paths that he trod awhile." 

This be the tone of the world's refrain — 

Else I shall feel I have lived in vain. 



FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 103 

RETROSPECTION 

Conflicting lights are ofttimes cast 

When thought illumes the misty past, 

And grim defeat and sombre grief 

Stand cruelly forth in sharp relief; 

But musing o'er departed days 

I find enwrapped in mellowed haze 

Two things my mem'ry sweetly blends — 

Old fishing holes — old fishing friends. 

A grassy bank, a cloudless sky. 
An open heart, a kindly eye; 
A blissful languor undefined, 
A friendship of a rarer kind. 
A mind refreshed and soul serene. 
Enraptured with the soothing scene 
O'er which my spirit fondly bends — 
Old fishing holes — old fishing friends. 

I dread the time when strength shall fail 
To bear me through the timbered trail; 
'Tis not far hence — the other day 
My mirror showed a touch of gray. 
No other joy, no other lure. 
Can so triumphantly endure; 
They beckon still, though age contends — 
Old fishing holes — old fishing friends. 

I ween that Mem'ry still survives 
The fitful tenure of our lives; 



I04 FISH IN' POEMS AND OTHERS 

It seems a pleasing thought, and yet 
There's much we all would fain forget. 
'Midst troubled strains that upward float 
On Mem'rj^'s wings, one placid note 
Will reach my soul and bring amends — 
Old fishing holes — old fishing friends. 



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